For the next week, Rashan moved like clockwork.
Conditioning in the mornings. Fast footwork. Grip strength. Breath control. Nothing wasted. Just enough to keep the edge honed. The rest of the day, and every quiet hour in his regression run, belonged to alchemy.
He figured the Dominion, even at their most efficient, would need at least a month to fully launch. Two weeks had already passed. A third wouldn't kill him.
He had dabbled before—fire brews, flash burns, quick-burst potions meant to panic or disable. He'd never been satisfied. That had been curiosity. This was focus.
In his last life, sabotage was simple. If you didn't have air superiority, you used C4. IEDs. Timed charges. You hit supply lines and choke points, vanished before the smoke had time to rise. The logic hadn't changed. Only the tools had.
He wanted wildfire—like the kind from stories. Green flame, unnatural heat, chaos in a bottle.
But the world pushed back. Maybe the laws of magic held the line. Maybe he lacked the refinement. Maybe it just needed ingredients so rare they only existed in Daedric vaults.
Whatever the reason, wildfire stayed out of reach.
So he built what he could.
Two parts. One system. Ignition and accelerant.
The ignition potion came first. He ground fire salts into a fine dust, then dried them over low flame until they stopped smoking. He simmered burnt spriggan sap in a shallow copper pan with just enough moon sugar oil to bind it—until the mixture darkened and took on a tar-like pull. Then came troll fat, dried and reduced to ash in his alchemical kiln, sifted smooth and folded into the base to stretch the burn.
The binder was canis root—crushed, soaked in mild spirits overnight, strained until thick. Everything came together cold, stirred with a bone-handled rod to avoid metal reaction.
Then came the real trick.
He hollowed out the top neck of each flask and slotted in a tiny glass capsule—thin, fragile, sealed with a wax ring. Inside it, he suspended powdered glow dust and torchbug thorax in diluted honeywater. The capsule sat just beneath the mouth of the flask, hidden under a soft wax plug.
Firm pressure cracked the capsule, dropping the catalyst into the potion.
The reaction began immediately.
A light press gave him thirty minutes. A harder shake cut that time in half—or worse. When the clock ran out, the potion unleashed a flame tall as a man—tight, hot, and sudden. No spread. Just ignition. That was the point.
Then came the accelerant.
Torchbug oil, slow-pressed and warmed until it ran clear. Distilled spore pod extract added next, reduced in alcohol and left to cool. Then, just a drop of nirnroot tincture—measured with a glass pipette and nothing more. Enough to thin the mixture and help it spread deep into anything dry.
The mixture soaked fast. It clung to wood, rope, cloth, grain. Even damp surfaces lost their resistance after a few seconds. The moment fire touched it, the material burst into full flame—no hesitation, no flickering buildup.
Ordinary fire lacked the precision. It gave off too much light, too much warning. Guards could stamp it out, snow or sand could smother it, and dry spells came and went with the wind. This system worked with certainty. Clean, quiet, and lethal.
He poured the accelerant over rope, barrels, canvas—and smiled as it vanished into the fibers. A single hand-sized bottle turned a storeroom into fuel.
He tested the system once—clear skies, early morning, far beyond the estate walls.
He pressed the wax plug. Walked. Waited.
Twenty-seven minutes later, the fire punched into the sky. Clean. Focused. Fast.
Wildfire stayed out of reach.
But this?
This would do.
Next, he went to see his mother.
She was in his father's study, seated where the light hit the table just right—papers spread, wax seals broken, one hand clutching a stylus mid-thought. She didn't look up right away. She didn't need to. She always knew when it was him.
"Hello, Mother. Any word from Father?"
She set the stylus down and rubbed her temple. "No answer from your father, and everything else is still a mess. Mixed reports, changing orders—every city says something different."
Rashan sighed. "Yeah… the Dominion's espionage is something."
She blinked. "What did you just say, my little star?"
"It's the Dominion. They're doing it on purpose. Keeping us confused. If no one knows what's real, no one prepares properly. They're buying time—just enough for their fleets to close in."
She leaned back slowly, exhaling through her nose. Her eyes drifted toward the shelves behind him, but didn't see them. He gave her the silence she needed.
After a moment, she nodded. "That's the most plausible thing I've heard."
He folded his arms. "And the Empire… they won't give them military access. That's a conjecture, but one I'm confident in. They'll come by sea."
She looked at him sharply now.
"Us," she said. "Taneth. Gilane. Hegathe. Rihad. Every port worth landing on."
Yes. Every port. And we won't be ready. They'll fall—and I need you and Sadiaa out of here before that happens."
He held her gaze.
"This city will fall with the rest. We're not prepared for what's coming."
She blinked. Her hand slowed over the parchment in front of her.
"We can't just—"
"Mother," he said quietly. "I know this is a lot. But do you trust me? Do you think I'd ask this without reason?"
She looked at him long and hard, as if trying to see something beyond his face. Her expression softened—not weak, just full of things she wasn't ready to say.
"Ever since that seer prophesied over you…" she murmured. "It's why I call you my little star. You always see something I don't."
A quiet breath passed between them.
She nodded.
"When do we leave?"
Rashan allowed a grin to slip onto his face—wry, almost boyish.
"I'm going to ask you to trust me even more."
She tensed slightly, sensing it.
"Myself, Cassia, and Jalil… we'll be staying behind."
That hit. Clean and sharp.
Her lips parted. Her voice caught.
"I don't want to leave you behind."
"I'll be a bit behind you," he said gently. "I intend to gather intelligence—for the main army. Who lands, what they bring, what they plan to take."
Of course he didn't tell he would be burning critical parts of the city as he left.
She looked at him for a long time.
Then, finally, she nodded again. Slower this time.
She sighed, her eyes softening.
"You've always been so different. So sure of yourself. A very independent child. Your father thinks you're a wise man reborn."
Rashan grinned inwardly. He didn't know about wise—maybe a little smart, definitely smartass. But a wise man probably wouldn't have gotten his legs blown off in another life. The thought nearly made him chuckle.
"Fine," she said, voice steadier now. "We'll be gone in three days."
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
She held him back just as tightly.
"I love you, my little star."